Main Brains and Sub-Brains and Meatballs and Moms

I love Ikea.

The smell of wood.  The meatballs.  The cheap furniture.

The meatballs.

And going to Ikea is an event of vacation proportions for me; planning is involved.  This is a big commitment- two hours in the car and, on this particular trip, Brady was a mere six months old. 

We'll get back to that later.

Something you might not know, because I just made it up, is that there are two parts of your brain- the main brain and the sub-brain.  Generally speaking, your main brain is the tenured professor of your head, and the sub-brain is the first year grad assistant, who gets to do all the crap that really can't be messed up too badly, like photocopying the syllabus.  The main brain cannot possibly be expected to do everything.

Have you ever done something almost automatically and then, as you’re in it, already committed to it, you realize with horror that what you’re in the midst of doing is absolutely insane?  That's because you have a shitty sub-brain.  Like I do.  Usually it's pretty harmless, such as last week when I drove myself to my old work building, despite the fact that we've been working out of the new one for six months now.  The other half of the time, it's pure horror.  One occasion I can think of in particular was at the Parcells’ wedding.  One thing I’m (sort of) good at is doing the worm.  If you’re not familiar with the worm, it looks like this:

Side note: I am nowhere NEAR as good as these people at this dance, so don't get excited.  

Actually, I’m not even sure if I’m good at it, but it seems that every time we’re somewhere with music, someone will say “Do the worm, Lola!”  I am willing to guarantee you that this suggestion is fueled by the fact that we are generally at a wedding, and have more than likely had a drink or two, and less so by my insane skill at flopping on the ground.

Anyhow, we were at the Parcells’ wedding.  And I decided to do the worm.  Woohoo! Worm!

Except, as I am on the ground, mid-push up, I realize that I’m wearing a dress.

You can’t stop a worm mid-worm, though.

The good news is that underwear I was wearing matched the dress, which I’m sure completely offset the bit of trashy flashing I brought to that lovely formal event.
It really is amazing that someone hasn't snatched me up yet, isn't it?  Classy girl like that?

As I told the Parcells a few days ago, I think about that on a weekly basis and cringe.

Far, far worse, though, was this trip to Ikea.  I was SO excited!  I was going to get a tiny desk that fit inside my closet, because I had taken all of my clothes out and the door off and my closet was now going to be – TA DA!- my writing room.

A good topic for a future blog might be how attempting to write in a closet will make you shockingly claustrophobic.  Little writing was accomplished that year.

I grabbed my cart and put Brady in it, and enthusiastically wheeled us toward the showroom.  If you’re not familiar with Ikea Canton, the show room is actually on the second floor.  I didn’t see any elevators, though.  That's where most people would stop and reassess, but I was so consumed with Malms and Lacks and Billy Bookcases, that my sub-memory took over.

All in all, I think this ability to let your sub-brain take over is a good thing.  There is not time in a day to think about every damn thing you do, which is how I am able to leave my house and arrive at work without any knowledge of getting there.  It's also really helpful in emergency situations.  Think about the split second when you see a drunk driver careening toward you on a dark road.  You can’t stop and think about that crap.  You just have to ACT.  I like to think that, in this situation, while my main brain was in shock, my sub-brain would take over by turning off the headlights and swerving to the right, which is what you’re supposed to do if an intoxicated driver is approaching you head-on. 

My sub-brain said, “Let’s take the escalator!”
My main brain said "Yuummmm, meeeattttballsssss!"

So I wheeled my cart over to the escalator, put the front wheels on and held up handle.  And me and my six month old baby took our shopping cart up the escalator. 

This is a good place to insert a picture of my super-beautiful kid:

P.S. Don't his hands look GIGANTIC in this picture?  Scary, Brade..

Now you can see that he is happy and healthy and not scarred by the stupidity of his mother.  I make him brush his teeth daily, and eat vegetables and take baths and sometimes I even make him wear matching clothes.

On the other hand, I did accidentally bring him to school without shoes the other day, and had to explain to The Swordfighter that- if he could just hold that thought- I would run out right quick and  purchase him a pair.

There was a perfectly good explanation as to why he wasn't wearing shoes (sort of..), but no matter how you say it, it just doesn't look very good when your child shows up at school shoeless, like a crazy country bumpkin, violating about 10 health laws.

And there is the small issue of him knowing one particularly foul swear word, but that is a result- so Brady has explicitly told me- of driving with Daddy.

Brady: (bad word)

Me: Brady!  Absolutely not!  That is a mean word.  We don’t say it ever.

Brady: Daddy says it.

Me:      External: Well, you don’t.

Internal: HAHAHA! Soooo busted!  And then?  It wasn't me!  He didn't learn it from me! Yesss!

Anyways, no worries about the well-being of my kid.  He’s good.

It is an amazing thing, to be on an escalator with a shopping cart; it is the closest that you will ever get to having time stop around you.  An escalator moves quite slowly, so you have plenty of time to look down on the people who are looking up at you, horrified. One woman gasped audibly, and craned her neck to watch, and when I think back on it, I wish I had had something to throw at her big face.

This also provides plenty of time to let your logical brain catch up with your instinctual brain and start a fight that sounds something like this: “Are you KIDDING me?! The ESCALATOR?  In a cart.  I leave you alone for ONE DAMN MINUTE and you put us on an escalator?!”

Also, from up there you could clearly see that the elevator was actually just another 50 or so feet away, hidden in a corner.  Good to know for next time.

Here’s a tip: if you see a woman taking a cart on an escalator?  The only thing stupider than being that woman is being the employee on the ground yelling, “Ma’am! Ma’am!” at her.  I’m on the fricking escalator, buddy- and the escalator only goes one way.  Furthermore, thank you for drawing more attention to the horror unfolding before our eyes. 

My awesome approach to dealing with this situation was this: act natural.  I decided to concentrate on talking to Brady, thinking, I think, that if I acted like this wasn’t weird in any way, maybe I could play it off like it wasn’t a big deal.  Really, though, chatting non-chalantly with your six month old while taking your ride of shame up the escalator only makes you look crazier. 

When I got to the top, I wanted to go home.  Which is really depressing when you have driven somewhere two hours away.

Instead, I called someone and cried.  In the middle of the store. I went in one of those little room displays they set up for you, and I made myself comfortable on the couch and I cried about how I just brought my baby up the escalator in a cart.

Then I ate lunch in the cafeteria thinking that, if I waited long enough, everyone that I came in with would be done shopping, and I wouldn’t have to walk around faux furniture paradise thinking that everyone else was thinking “That’s the girl that brought her kid up the escalator in a cart”.

And that is how you ruin a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth.

But I have more to say about it then just that.  You know what?  It's fricking hard to be a mom today.  Now, granted, I have no idea what it was like to be a mom prior to this, but it seems to me that today you're expected to have your shit together in a way that it is physically and mentally impossible for anyone to live up to.  I'm really happy for you if you're able to hold down a kick-ass career AND feed your kid organic stuff AND have deep meaningful relationships AND enroll your kid in piano AND mow your lawn and do your laundry and not have a lot of dust coming out of all the vents in your house AND make it to the gym 4-5 times per week, all by yourself.

No, that's a lie.  If you're actually able to do all of that, I probably hate you and talk about you incessantly behind your back, and I most DEFINITELY blocked you from my Facebook feed.

Meanwhile, over here, I throw organic grapes into the same cart as super-processed Lunchables, thereby negating any positive effects.  My kid doesn't play piano, unless by play you mean bang, and sometimes he eats things off of the kitchen floor before I can stop him, and last night we made pita bread and I saw him drool in the pita dough, but by that time I had already put so much work into the damn dough that I just went ahead and made it anyway.  I'm REALLY hoping we hit a dry spell again, because since it's been raining, the lawn is growing a lot, and I really can't bring myself to mow it.  Sometimes I go to the gym, but other days I just put on my workout clothes and go out and buy myself some frozen yogurt and call it good.

And sometimes I bring my kid to school with no shoes on.
And, yes, I take babies up escalators in shopping carts.

Honestly, though?  I don't even think it's being overwhelmed- I think that's just LIFE.  Sometimes the lawn doesn't get mowed.  Whatever.

I feel though, that the Mom to Mom code is being broken.  Even if you're super organic eater, you know it's harder than crap to be a mom, and I think that maybe we could all do each other a favor and be a little nicer.  And what I mean by that is, next time you see someone headed up an escalator with a shopping cart?  Just look the other way.  Seriously.  Take your big gawky face and turn it toward the Malm dressers or the Billy shelves or shove it full of Swedish meatballs and pretend like it isn't happening.  It's just the right thing to do.  Someday, probably soon, I will return the favor by walking around your child, who is flailing and screaming in the middle of the cereal aisle, and I will not look at you or even appear to notice that it's happening at all.

You are welcome.